


SourpackKid

by xDx



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Creature!Stiles, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Season 1 Compliant, Slow Build, Superwolf, hunter friendly crossover, sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-21 01:11:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xDx/pseuds/xDx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek picks up a strange scent in the woods. Stiles unwittingly befriends the Winchesters, oh, and also gets attacked by a scary dark creature or something. Sam and Dean, they just want to watch the new kid flail.</p><p>This is a playfully (yet completely) irreverent fanfic, sometimes meta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holy Shit

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, this isn't beta'd because I don't have a pack. :'C So any mistakes are my own, and please feel free to point them out.
> 
> As the tags indicated, this is mostly season one (of Teen Wolf) compliant. One thing to note is that Lydia wolfed out. Also keep in mind that I've pulled a few characters and some information from Supernatural with no regard to the timeline in that 'verse, really.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Stiles Stilinski should have known the universe had other plans for him. All he wanted was to be part of Der--Scott's pack, to finally win over Lydia Martin, and to survive long enough to graduate high school.

What he never expected was a certain Sourwolf's pained writhing on the veterinarian's floor to haunt his dreams in an incredibly different scenario in what he was referring to as his "Big Gay Experience". He was also stunned to find himself begrudgingly accepted as a valuable part of the (Hale, not McCall, but so be it) pack after Peter's brutally awesome death. But both of these things paled in comparison to what-Stiles-didn't-expect number three: his startlingly sudden death and the events that followed...

***

"Change my ringtone again and I'll rip your tendons to shreds." Derek's annoyed muttering continued as Stiles rubbed at his eyes sleepily, yawning into his phone.

"Really? You called me at seven in the morning on a Saturday to get all growly about your ringtone?" Stiles heard said growling intensify. "I'm so not scared of you. Well, a little, but definitely not on the phone. What do you want? Surely you called for a reason, seeing as we don't like each other. At all."

The line was silent for so long that Stiles hesitated, checking that the call hadn't dropped, twice.

"There's something new in the area. I can smell it," Derek finally revealed. Stiles rolled his eyes, sitting up and throwing back his comforter.

"Good job, Balto. I'm guessing it's supernatural or you wouldn't bother to phone the token human." He stumbled out of bed and across the hallway to throw back some Adderall and wash his face. "Got anything else for me to go on?"

"Not yet. Come over this afternoon." Derek said it with a note of finality, but Stiles interrupted him with a thoughtful noise.

"Should I tell Scott and Jackson?" Stiles stuck his toothbrush in his mouth, half-heartedly brushing away from the phone's receiver.

"No. We're going to track the scent through the woods. Bring some of your general information binders later." That said, he hung up abruptly leaving Stiles staring at his reflection.

"You," he told his mirror with an accusing toothbrush jab, "are so pathetically in like." He finished his morning routine and tripped over his own plaid flannel pants going down the stairs.

His father, surprised to see him, offered a plate of pancakes.

"Yeah, sure. Hey, can I go to Scott's later? We want to make sure we don't get too out of practice for lacrosse."

"If I say no, will you do it anyway?" Sheriff Stilinski asked, arching an eyebrow with a long-suffering sigh.

"You bet," Stiles grinned. "You know me so well."

"That's my job, kid." The Sheriff passed him a plate of steaming pancakes, effectively shutting his son up by way of shoving food in his mouth. "Go ahead. I'm working late tonight, but don't let me come home to an empty house. Again."

"Sure thing," Stiles choked around a syrupy bite. "See you later?"

"Much later," his Dad returned, patting him on the head on his way out the door. Stiles had a moment of guilt about lying to his father, but shrugged it off. It was better that Dad didn't know about all this supernatural mumbo jumbo happening in his precinct. It was safer. With that thought, he nommed happily and thought about what he might do to pass the first half of his day.

***

Three hours of Assassin's Creed and a shower later, Stiles rolled his jeep up the leaf-covered pathway to the Hale house. Saying "driveway" would definitely be too generous a term. He approached the house cautiously, still occasionally a little creeped out by its burnt-out appearance and haunted by the memory of death that marked it.

He wondered often why Derek had continued to use this place, to live here where his family had died, but asking once during a particularly idiotic sugar high had only resulted in being slapped in the back of the head. Sometimes he forgot things like "tact" and "timing" were important in social situations.

His inner monologue had lasted long enough for him to reach the front porch and push his way inside.

"Hey, Sourwolf. You guys back yet?" Stiles called into the ether.

Unsurprisingly, he was met by silence, which didn't necessarily mean that Derek wasn't inside. Instead of standing awkwardly in the doorway, he made himself at home, walking into the room Derek had cleared and assembled into a make-shift living area. He paced impatiently, running his fingers over the ruined wallpaper and settee. He stilled as he noticed a glass-door bookcase he hadn't noticed before.

Stiles knelt down, peering through the glass, and almost lost his balance in his surprise to find an aged picture of the Hale family smiling back. Carefully, he opened the doors, pulling out the intricately carved wooden frame. In the picture, teenage Derek and Laura had their arms wrapped around each other's shoulders in matching light-hearted grins that Stiles could hardly recognize.

He replaced the picture, biting his lip and, no he wasn't tearing up, that was just a branch in his eye, thank you very much. He shut the cabinet with a click, but before he could find anywhere else to snoop he heard the front door pushed open and the murmur of voices.

"Hey," Stiles greeted from the doorway. "Took you guys long enough."

"Whatever, Stilinski. You weren't out there running around like a jackass after Bambi," Jackson spat.

"Oh, seriously? It was a deer, and I got a call at ridiculous o'clock in the morning?" Stiles asked, protesting. He led the way into the living room, grabbing a seat on the settee with Scott as Jackson settled on the floor and Derek loomed above them.

"No," Derek said, voice firm. "We couldn't find the scent again, but what I smelled wasn't animal. Or human."

"Okay, Tonto," Jackson said. "But I'm telling you, there was nothing to find. We searched everywhere in a six-mile radius."

Derek growled slightly, stopping only when Jackson lowered his gaze. Stiles glanced at Scott, who tried to twitch his eyebrows meaningfully, and guessed that there had been some discordance in the field.

"Okay," Stiles said cheerfully. "So can you describe what you smelled? Like, was it kinda fishy? Did it smell like rotten eggs? You've gotta give me something to go on."

Derek gazed significantly into the middle distance, thoughtful. Stiles felt justified in staring, thankfully, or he would be incredibly embarrassed by his apparent endeavor to memorize every individual hair of Derek's five-and-a-half o'clock shadow.

"It smelled like death. Not decay or rot, just," Derek trailed as Stiles berated himself for his internal snarkiness, "the absence of life." Stiles considered the phrase, turning it over a few times in his head to test it out.

"I know what it is," he informed them. "Vampires. In California. Definitely vampires."

Derek frowned, his eyebrows creasing.

"Look, if you're not going to take this seriously--"

"I am, I am," Stiles objected quickly. "I just need more to go on than, 'It smelled like death'. I guess there's nothing to do until we get more information."

Derek sighed, and Stiles wondered if everyone around him sounded that long-suffering or if it was just Derek and his Dad. Hmm.

"So, is Lydia sick or did she just manage to skip out on bloodhound duty?" he derailed, asking Jackson.

"Both," the blonde stated, sullen. "She's still having nightmares, but says they're not clear." They considered this thoughtfully. A year had passed since she'd developed PTSD (amazingly enough, becoming a werewolf had not cured psychological damage—for anyone).

Obligatory pack business out of the way, Stiles perked up.

"So, anyone wanna grab some pizza and head back to my place for some Call of Duty?" Surprisingly, all three of the wolves agreed, and the night passed relatively quietly with little talk of strange smells in the woods.

***

Two days later, Stiles found himself being woken, again, at a completely indecent hour in the morning.

"Seriously, Hale?" Stiles muttered into the receiver. "Someone better be dying."

"Stiles," Derek admonished, tone brooking no funny quips.

"Okay, okay. What is it?" Stiles rolled his eyes, enjoying the fact that Derek couldn't see him.

"What do you know about zombies?" Derek asked in his serious-business alpha voice. Stiles sat up abruptly in bed, barely reeling in the urge to burst into laughter, and had to take a breath before he responded.

"Well, it seems possible. There's information about Voodou and some really screwed up black magic rituals that kinda suggests it could be a real thing," Stiles muttered. He flipped through his mental catalog quickly. "The only problem is that in both cases, it's kept really close to the chest. No one wants to share the secret to immortality, ya know?"

Derek grunted in what Stiles assumes is agreement.

"So, are you thinking that a zombie is what's hobbling around our woods?" Stiles asked curiously, swearing he could hear Derek hum under his breath. He shuffled his feet under the sheets, glancing out his window to admire the pleasantness of early morning.

"I'm not sure," Derek responded. "I want to see it first."

"Well, I'll check some of the online databases and see if I can find anything substantial," Stiles offered with a yawn. "Later, if that's okay. Right now, I just want to sleep for a week."

"Stiles," Derek managed to make sound like a warning.

"Alright, alright. I'll do it now, Sourwolf. I'll text you if I find anything," Stiles said. He lowered the phone, surprised when he heard Derek mutter a goodbye for once, before shutting it with a soft click. He groaned in annoyance before rushing to his desk to grab his laptop, then hurtling back to the relative warmth of his bed.

With a few clicks, the brunette was online, connecting to a privately hosted website devoted to the sharing of paranormal information. He signed into the dummy front page, which was supposedly a cattle auction, and was transported to the security questions. After answering in precise capitals that his closest childhood friend's full name was "Scott Motherfucking McCall" (hey, it was memorable, not necessarily true), he entered the secured index.

Stiles thanked someone above that Derek had never asked what he got up to online, because he always felt nervous about using this site. The information index was helpful, but he actually found more use in the hunters' forums--which, he imagined, Derek would be adamantly against. Stiles was relatively certain he hadn't managed to give himself or the pack away with any details, so he lived with the motto 'What Derek doesn't know can't hurt him.'

He checked his personal messages, quickly shooting off a response to a message from Bosing53 about werewolf pack dynamics. He'd quickly become the resident werewolf go-to guy despite having the username SourpackKid. He'd even gone so far as to dispell some of the stigma against them due to some misconceptions about a close cousin species who had stirred up trouble in recent years.

On the main Creatures page, he started a new thread called simply "Zombies: Real or Not Real?" In the body, he wrote, “Need more in depth information about existence of zombies. Already read cursory sources about voodou, but lacking any witnesses or related cases. Also interested in finding out if possible using black magic. Help?”

Feeling satisfied that it didn't sound particularly alarming (his post about merpeople earlier that year had contained exactly one exclamation point and two typos, and after eight hours of not responding to PMs he'd had JHarvy89 telling him she was going to track him down if he didn't answer soon), he posted it. He waited for responses, with alerts now forwarded to his phone to speed his reaction time, while he scrolled through a brief manifesto about a Hoodou cult following down in New Orleans.

He didn't have to wait long before receiving a response, this time from a user he'd never interacted with before, though he'd seen him lurking and posting alarmingly frequently about demon omens and the pending Apocalypse. Clicking on the message from SamfortheWin, he poured over the words.

"Aren't you a little young to be interested in all this?" Stiles frowned, petulantly sticking out his tongue at the monitor and regretting ever filling in the cursory profile information. "Guess the earlier you start the better you'll be. I picked up hunting in college, myself."

"Attached are a few scans from a book that's older than the United States. Can't help you with the black magic, but definitely check this out if you're having problems with the undead."

"Is it obvious that it's a zombie? Need more information to diagnose, but I could give some suggestions. Zombies are statistically rare. Could be you've got a case of something nastier. Let me know."

Stiles scanned the files with his antivirus, then clicked them open when they proved clean. Displayed were several pages of text, complete with engraved summoning sigils and both French and Latin chants. He made a note to email those to Lydia.

He responded to the message, grateful. "Hey, I'm a legal adult as of two weeks ago. That's old enough to know my way around, Grandpa. Seriously, thanks for the info. Just a hypothetical question, but you wouldn't happen to know what a zombie smelled like, would you?"

While he waited for a response from SamfortheWin, he texted Derek a quick update and sent Lydia an email asking for a rough translation of the voodou ritual. He also managed to open a few tabs with information about other undead creatures before his phone vibrated with a notification. He checked his messages again.

"I'm only 27, dork. The only reason you should be calling me Grandpa is if you're my future offspring's offspring, and even then you're not really allowed to fuck with the past." Stiles raised an eyebrow, but was by now prepared to brush off all the hunters' weird quirks.

"Hypothetically, they smell like someone died but then a psycho witch on a power trip decided they couldn't stay dead so she (or he, equal opportunity genders, here) reanimated the corpse. Zombies smell like rotting flesh and usually a vast amount of other people's blood."

Stiles sat back against his pillows, thoughtful. Cautiously, he typed out another response, "So, say I've got a supernatural being and it smells like nothing. Literally nothing. No body odor, no everyday smells of life, just the absence of it. But it's got a noticeable presence and the wildlife is alarmed. Got anything that sounds like that?"

He knew it was a far stretch, but Stiles knew better than to look an offer of help in the mouth. He stretched out, reading about undead vessels and various incarnations of zombie legends from Eastern Europe. Nearly two hours passed and he assumed that the hunter was checking his fancy Latin tomes while Stiles himself had dragged his tired body out of bed to eat PopTarts, at least.

Finally, his phone vibrated again. He threw back the rest of his orange juice and trudged up the stairs, flipping open his laptop. He clicked his latest message.

"Sounds like you've got yourself a vampire. Don't kill it unless it tries to kill you." Stiles checked his inbox, hoping for a continuation, but found it empty. He stared at the two sentences in trepidation.

"Holy shit."


	2. You're Not My Real Dad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I write best in the early hours of the morning, and transitions for this chapter eluded me. c:
> 
> And Rika--don't sass me in the comments, the other readers will start getting ideas!

As soon as his higher brain functions came back online, Stiles fumbled for his phone, already planning how to avoid explaining his newfound knowledge of vampire-smell without spilling his hunter connections.

“Derek,” he greeted, words scrambling to match the speed of this thoughts. “It's vampires!” He was greeted with an extensive pause and a resounding sigh from the alpha wolf.

“This joke wasn't funny when you told it Saturday,” Derek said.

“Shut up, I'm hilarious,” Stiles huffed. “But I really think it might be a vampire that you smelled. I found some decent intel, don't even ask me where, and there's a note about a distinct lack of odor.” As he talked, he opened a few document download links about verified vampire attacks not available on the public domain.

“Vampires,” Derek repeated, his voice sounding less than convinced. Stiles made a noise of agreement, neither of them speaking for a few moments.

“Wow,” Stiles finally said. “They are some pretty whacked out characters. According to my research, we'd know if it was a vampire because he/she/they would be offing people left and right.” He read through a case study about the legendary Winchester brothers clearing out a nest with interest.

“There was only one,” Derek murmured. Stiles shrugged, forgetting that the movement was lost over the phone.

“That's what you focused on? Regardless,” the chipper brunette replied, “it's pretty freaking cool that they still exist. Maybe it's just passing through and it wanted to investigate the wet dog smell all over the woods.” Derek snorted in what Stiles chose to believe was amusement.

“Doesn't matter. As long as it doesn't confront us or cause any trouble in town, we shouldn't have to get involved.” Stiles immediately thought of the hunter's advice, 'Don't kill it unless it tries to kill you.'

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Probably for the best. Hey, my Dad's got another double tonight. You can come over and brood around my house if you want.”

“Maybe,” Derek acknowledged. “Good job with the research.”

“Okay, you really gotta stop being nice to me, Hale,” Stiles said, grinning. “I might start to think you actually like me under that frowny, head-smashing-into-steering-wheel exterior.”

“That was only once,” Derek protested. Stiles imagined his exasperated face, which truth be told was only slightly different than his average everyday face. “I'm going now.”

“Fine, fine. I've gotta go do this really important thing anyway,” Stiles lied.

“Goodbye, Stiles,” Derek said, hanging up.

Stiles rolled his eyes, tossing away his cell and pulling his laptop closer. Some of the articles and personal encounters on the index were gruesomely terrifying, with one even including a sketch of a humanoid creature with long, sharp teeth jutting out of its mouth. He felt a shiver of fearful captivation.

“I wonder what a vampire wants to do in sunny California,” he mused to himself. Shrugging, he decided to drop the subject temporarily. He found himself page-hopping on Wikipedia when an email notification popped up on the corner of his screen. As he opened it, he slapped a hand against his forehead. He'd completely forgotten about sending Lydia that Voodou ritual to translate. Well, he thought, at least we don't have to worry about a counter-spell to piss off a crazy witch. Again.

***

When he heard the knock on his door a few hours later, Stiles was startled out of a quick nap. He shuffled downstairs to open the door, vaguely nervous. When it occurred to him earlier that he had just invited Derek Hale to his house—alone, for the first time ever—he'd tried to ask Scott to hang out and buffer Stiles's inappropriate thoughts by sheer force of innocence. The kid was adorable, really, in his naiveté.

Unfortunately, he was also interested in defiling said innocence by making out with his off-and-on girlfriend (currently, blessedly, on) Allison. On the other side of the door was Derek jaw-dropping gorgeous Big Gay Experience-inducing Hale. Stiles caught his breath and decided he should probably stop using his full name in his head.

"Hey," Stiles said, throwing open the door enthusiastically. Derek quirked an eyebrow at him and waltzed into the house as if it was his territory which, well Stiles assumed all of Beacon Hills was. Stiles ducked into the living room after him, eyes catching the Chinese take-out Derek had brought with glee. "Oh my God, you are the best."

"It's just food," Derek muttered, shrugging one shoulder.

"Yes, hot and amazing and delicious food," Stiles groaned. "Gimme!" He threw himself onto the couch beside the alpha, burrowing into the cushions until he was comfortable, and grabbed the box of lo mein that was closest. Stiles was irritatingly pleased with this.

"Where did you find the information about how vampires smell?" Derek asked conversationally. Stiles froze almost imperceptibly, then stuffed a forkful of saucy noodles in his mouth.

"Oh, you know," Stiles said, chewing in a way he knew annoyed the alpha. "Just online on one of the legit indexes. Paranormal people go to bitch about their problems--rogue shapeshifters, demon possession, gnomes in the garden and the like."

"Show me," Derek commanded lightly, his expression matching it. Stiles was too busy lamenting that he was so able to recognize his expressions from the way Derek's eyebrows shifted around his face to think of an excuse not to.

"Uh, yeah, sure," Stiles said. "After I demolish all of this Chinese." He flipped on the TV to have something that might distract the alpha's attention while he tried to conjure a way to defer or possibly even avoid having to show Derek his sources.

Which is, of course, when his phone buzzed with an email alert. Stiles gulped lightly, side-eyeing Derek in trepidation.

"Something wrong?" Derek asked, frowning. "Your heartbeat picked up."

"It's nothing. I'll be right back. Gotta get my laptop from upstairs," Stiles said quickly, hopping up from his couch and trudging up the stairs.

When he got into his room, he felt the edges of panic creeping in. He grabbed his computer, flipping it open quickly. Thankfully, the tab with his inbox was still open from earlier in the day. He clicked the new message from SamfortheWin nervously.

"Hey, kid, just wanted to let you know that we're going to be headed your direction soon." We? How in the hell did this guy find out where Stiles was, despite Danny's attempts to teach him to bounce his IP address? "We've got a ton of weird omens coming from Orange County. If you need help with your vampire problem, let me know. We've definitely got experience--took out a nest in Austin once."

Stiles's breath stuck in his chest as he reread the last line. A nest in Austin? Why did that sound so familiar? He shook his head slightly then clicked the reply button. He typed as quickly as he could manage, "Questions were completely hypothetical, man. Thanks for the offer."

After he sent it, Stiles made a show of loudly leaving his room and heading back to the couch.

"Sorry," he apologized. "It was buried under dirty laundry." He cleared his throat. Derek rolled his eyes.

"I'm a werewolf. I heard you typing. What's going on?"

"Shit. So, I may have done something stupid," Stiles said slowly, widening his eyes in a way he hoped would look endearingly innocent. He guessed he had probably failed when Derek narrowed his eyes in response.

"How stupid?" Derek demanded.

"Uh, possibly called in out-of-town hunters for a quiet little tea party stupid," Stiles admitted. Derek scowled, his eyebrows furrowing at their all-time lowest.

"What have you done?" Derek threw his empty container onto the coffee table.

"That index I was telling you about earlier? It's actually a networking website for hunters. I mean, there are some creatures and stuff on there who like to keep tabs on the information circling so nobody decides to gank them. You'd actually be surprised-"

"Enough," Derek interrupted. "You asked them for help?"

"...Sorta," Stiles replied. "I mean, we've actually been relatively quiet since you became our alpha." Derek's hummed slightly. “I like learning about what else is out there.”

"And, they're coming here?" Derek clarified.

"Well, I seriously hope not," Stiles said. "This guy may or may not be schizophrenic because it turns out he sometimes refers to himself as a plural pronoun. I mean, that's more wacky than I'm used to."

Derek sighed.

"Not that I'm super-familiar with hunters. You know, it's probably not as bad as it seems. I told him not to come so maybe he'll listen, unlike some werewolves I know," Stiles said. He wasn't as confident in this conclusion as he sounded, and apparently Derek felt the same.

"I don't want you talking to them anymore," Derek growled.

"Oh my God, Derek. You're not my Dad in the schoolyard. They have a lot of good material to offer, and I'm not going to be anything less than prepared to help the pack," Stiles said forcefully. Derek blinked at him, his shoulders deflating from their stiffness slightly.

"Don't tell them anything about the pack," Derek told him gruffly.

"I'm not an idiot," Stiles muttered under his breath, certain Derek would hear, and continued before the alpha could respond, "and of course I won't give any details. I've been here for more than a year, you know." He gestured to his laptop, flipping it open and pulling up the forums.

Derek seemed significantly less angry, so Stiles considered this a victory.

"Ah, I did kinda talk about pack dynamics a bit, though. And also, did you know that some hunters actually think you guys can never learn to control yourselves?" Stiles rambled. "I mean, no wonder they're always after your ass. They used to think the only good werewolf was a dead werewolf. I cleared that right up."

Derek ran an exasperated hand across his face. "Stiles, you can't just tell people all about us. We're safer if we're secret."

"No," Stiles protested, "you're deader. These are serious badasses, like Argent-level of deadliness, not some dorks on the internet. I'm doing all of wolf-kind a favor."

Derek picked up a second container, this time of pork fried rice, apparently done with the conversation. Stiles was incredibly pleased with how that had gone. As if the universe was sensing his spike of elation, it decided to rain on that parade before the first float.

Beside him on the couch, Derek tensed up perceptibly. His nostrils flared as he scented the air, turning instinctively towards the front of the house. Stiles glanced between Derek and his suddenly interesting front door, curious. Derek stood, crossing the room in quick strides.

"Uh," Stiles managed weakly, rising from the couch to follow. Derek opened the door quietly, Stiles sticking his head into the entryway to glance around him to the front lawn.

Standing halfway down his cement walkway was a tall, pale man. His dark hair was long, and his eyes shined preternaturally in the half-light of the moon above. Stiles sputtered briefly, which was admittedly his response to most supernatural creatures upon first seeing them. The man smiled slowly, lips thin and seeming almost stretched.

"Alpha Hale," the man said, "I am Alexander Benedict LeBlanc, at your service. I did not intend to intrude on your territory, and found my way here to apologize. Might I say, I find your strange little pack very interesting."

Derek shifted in the doorway, blocking off Stiles's view of the newcomer.

"How long did you plan on staying?" His voice was authoritative, something Stiles was incredibly awkward noting was sexy given the timing.

"Oh, not long," Alexander replied. "But I'd love to speak to you about the remnants of the Hale pack dynasty sometime. Or maybe your adorable little human pet."

"I'm not a pet," Stiles objected, side-stepping Derek's figure to cross his arms on the porch.

"Oh, darling. Of course not. My mistake." Alexander's eyes looked gleeful rather than apologetic, and Stiles found himself disliking the vampire and his irritating aloofness.

"You can stay a few days," Derek said, "but I'd prefer if you stayed away from my pack. All of them." He reached out, grabbing Stiles's wrist and tugging him back into the house. The clearly annoyed alpha shut the door behind them with a resounding snap.

"Rude," Stiles muttered, grinning. Derek shook his head, rolling his eyes before he plowed back into the couch with a completely necessary amount of force.

"Text the others," Derek told him before he resumed eating his Chinese as if they hadn't just encountered a--holy shit, probably centuries old or something--real live vampire moments before. Stiles tried to quell his disbelief as he did exactly what Derek asked.

"So, that was creepy and vaguely pedophilic," Stiles announced at random.

"Not pedophilic if you're not a minor," Derek stated, matter of fact. Stiles nodded with a small sound of agreement. The newness of being eighteen still hadn't rubbed off. "Stay away from him, anyway."

"Yes, Dad," Stiles muttered. He chewed on some lo mein, missing the look of incredulity Derek threw his way. "Let's just eat so I can show you more of the index, and then trick you into watching cat videos on Youtube."

"You can't trick me if you tell me beforehand," Derek told him solemnly.

"Challenge accepted," Stiles said, smiling when it earned a sharp laugh from the alpha. The night ran rather smoothly, considering the universe was out to get him.

***

When Stiles left the next morning to get coffee with Allison and Scott, he left a note for his Dad. 'Getting coffee. Back by lunch. -Stiles' Hindsight had him wishing he'd at least written some of those stupid 'x's and 'o's that meant hugs and kisses, respectively, on the last note he'd ever write his father in this lifetime.


	3. Bang Bang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are incredible! I never expected the response you've given me. Thank you so much for continuing to read my weird little story. I appreciate you so much, you have no idea! <3
> 
> So a quick note: I don't know anything about the evolution of the planet. Any of you who are more familiar with it, please forgive my mistakes. I tried to be vague enough that it wasn't an obvious slap in the face.

Stiles hopped into his trusty Jeep, caressing the steering wheel lightly as he cranked the engine. He turned on the radio, fingers tapping out the melody of some cheesy 80's rock ballad as he drove. It took less than ten minutes to arrive in Beacon Hill's only non-Starbucks coffee shop.

When he entered, he caught sight of Allison and Scott immediately. He threw them a jaunty wave as he joined the short queue in front of the barrista. He considered his options, settling quickly on a white chocolatey mocha concoction that tasted like heaven in a cup and gave him the jitters if he drank too quickly.

The caffeine dealer of the day was his favorite, a short chubby girl who always wore Marvel comic t-shirts under her apron. Stiles greeted her, ordered, and then headed over to finally settle into a chair across from his lovebird friends.

"Morning, you two. It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood," he said with a grin. Allison smiled at him.

"Isn't that Mr. Rogers?" Scott asked, blinking at Stiles.

"No, I'm Stiles. How many times do we have to go over this?" Stiles asked, winking and waggling his eyebrows. Scott scoffed, flushing slightly. "You guys have a nice date yesterday? Scott abandoned me for you, Alli. He left me in Derek's clutches all by my lonesome."

"It was very nice," Allison replied, taking Scott's hand. "And don't act like it's a hardship to hang out with Derek." Stiles spluttered slightly, then scrunched his face in an exaggerated scowl at her.

"It would be for me," Scott complained. "But he actually likes you, Stiles." Allison giggled faintly, covering her mouth with her hand. Stiles stared at Scott in disbelief.

"What are you even talking about?" Stiles asked. "He doesn't like me. He barely puts up with my presence!"

"Dude," Scott protested. "He throws me around when we do training, and he always treats me like I'm five years old. He actually asks your opinion for stuff sometimes. And he fixed his house after you threatened to stop coming to pack meetings when the porch gave in."

"Yeah, well," Stiles replied, embarrassingly pleased with this revelation, "that place was a death trap. He was just doing that because he has some common sense."

"You know," Allison said thoughtfully, "he really does seem to value your opinion. Like, remember when he wanted to kill all the merpeople and you just made us trap them and release them somewhere else?"

"Alright, someone explain to me why we're even talking about this," Stiles groaned. "I don't need to be reminded how awesome I am, I already know." He threw his arms behind his head and puffed his chest out, striking a ridiculous pose. Allison laughed at his antics.

Their jaunty conversation was interrupted by the barrista calling Stiles's name. He retrieved his cup, meandering through the tables to rejoin his friends.

"So," he began quietly, "I think I found out what Derek smelled in the woods the other night." Both Allison and Scott scooted forward slightly in anticipation. "It's vampires. Real, live vampires."

"What?" Scott squeaked loudly. Allison squeezed his hand as Stiles glanced around the room quickly. He was thoroughly shushed.

"I'm serious," Stiles affirmed. "I asked around on the site you showed me, Als, and one of the big league hunter badies told me it sounded like a vamp. He offered to come help me out, too, but I think I talked him out of it."

"Err, actually," Allison said, "you totally didn't. Hunters work alone most of the time, or in families like mine. They never offer their help. Sometimes they won't even show up if you call in favors. They were just giving you a friendly warning."

"Oh," Stiles replied. "Well. That's... unfortunate." He blinked at her blankly. "Did I just rain doom upon our pack?"

"Um, maybe?" Allison at least looked sad to have to inform him. "But maybe I can have my Dad talk to him about our truce or something. I mean, we're a pretty prominent name. The perks of being an Argent." She rolled her eyes.

"Uh, good," Stiles managed. "I'm pretty sure I still have to tell Derek about it, though." Scott winced sympathetically.

Stiles pulled his cell phone from his pocket, opening a new message and thought about how to best phrase it so as not to end up being thrown against a wall or equally abused. He typed finally, 'Allison says hunter problem possibly not resolved...' He put the phone on the table, leaving it visible for the inevitable reply.

"So," Allison began, distracting him helpfully. "Don't look now, but young Antonio Banderas has been eyeing you since you did your weird stretch earlier."

Stiles, ever contrary, looked where she was gesturing with her eyes immediately. Across the room sat a guy around their age who did, in fact, bear a striking resemblance to the actor. His skin was tanned, eyes dark, and black hair long and waving down to his chest. Stiles turned back to Allison, arching his eyebrows questioningly.

"Just thought you'd like the tall, dark, and handsome thing," Allison shrugged, sipping her coffee, nonchalant. Stiles rolled his eyes, seriously regretting having let slip about his crush to Allison one (slightly tipsy) night.

Scott frowned deeply, glancing between Allison and Stiles, but said nothing. Before Stiles could puzzle out his response, he was startled by his phone vibrating. He grabbed it, reading the response aloud.

"Where are you? We should discuss this in person." The brunette groaned in earnest, running his fingers through his messy hair. "Guys! He's going to murder me. 'Discuss in person' means murder!"

"Probably not," Allison offered helpfully. "Remember the whole respecting you think we discussed earlier?" Stiles scoffed. "Either way, we're headed across town to the mall."

"Thanks, guys," Stiles muttered. "Throw me to the wolf." Allison and Scott sported matching grins.

"Later, Stiles," Scott said as they both stood. He watched them leave, then decided to meet his fate and text Derek back. 'The Sentient Bean. Scott and Alli just left, but I can hang around if you want.' The reply was immediate.

'I want.' Stiles was having heart palpitations, definitely not fluttery feelings of the romantic variety. He frowned at his cell phone for possibly inducing cardiac arrest. He put it down, not wanting to be responsible for Derek texting and driving (sheriff's son), but also not knowing how to reply to that text.

His thoughtful solitude was interrupted by Antonio Banderas approaching the table.

"Hey," the guy greeted. "Is this seat taken?" Stiles blinked up at him.

"No, dude. You can have it. Did your table only have one? I hate when people rearrange the seats so their friends can fit, and then one table has like five and another one only has one, and then you go to meet someone and like--oh hey, I don't have a chair." Stiles forcibly stopped himself from talking, but the guy just grinned down at him.

"I meant, can I sit down with you," he clarified.

"Uh, sure," Stiles replied without thinking. "Absolutely. Why? Err, I mean-"

"I think you're very interesting," the stranger replied. "I'm Alejandro."

"You're kidding," Stiles returned. "Like the song?" The guy nodded. "Wow, I bet people sing that to you all the time. I bet that gets really annoying. Annoying like word-vomiting to strangers, annoying. I'm Stiles, by the way."

"Stiles," Alejandro repeated. "That's an unusual name."

"Well, yeah," Stiles replied, glancing down at his cup and swirling the coffee inside. "It's just a nickname because no one can pronounce my first name. Or spell it. My last name's Stilinski, so I guess it just came from that."

"See, interesting," Alejandro said. "So what is your first name?"

"Whoa, buddy," Stiles joked, "not on the first date. My best friend barely remembers it." Alejandro smirked at him as Stiles's brain caught up with his mouth just in time to be mortified. "Not that this is a date, obviously, since I don't even know you."

"No," Alejandro agreed. "But you could, if you were interested."

"Uh," Stiles replied intelligently. He blinked at the guy across from him, taking in his appearance again, and having a small brain malfunction as he tried to comprehend why this hot guy was apparently hitting on him. He shook himself out of it, panicking a bit.

"In fact," Alejandro said, meaningfully, "I really think you should know more about me." Stiles's mouth opened wordlessly before he shut it with a snap. He was barely getting used to his Big Gay Experience with Derek, and now random guys were asking him out. Sweet Jesus!

"I, yeah," Stiles managed faintly. He blinked a few times, truly astonished when Alejandro still existed as his eyes reopened.

"Very good," the man replied. He reached out one hand, which Stiles had just enough time to notice had strangely shaped nails, before they wrapped around his wrist and sunk into his skin lightly.

"Oh, damn," Stiles managed haltingly as his brain fogged. Where the hell was Derek?

***

When he was brought back to startlingly bright consciousness, Stiles found himself sitting upright in a comfortably padded chair. His arms and legs weren't restrained, but he couldn't manage to force them into movement.

"I'm sorry that I had to exert such forceful control on you," came a disembodied (to him, anyway) voice, "but I felt it was necessary that you didn't make a scene as we left."

"Alejandro?" Stiles asked the empty air around him. He noticed that he was inside a motel room, a double bed with an atrocious comforter on one side of the room and a small kitchenette and bathroom on the other. "I've gotta tell you, I'm really rethinking the getting to know you idea."

"Is that so?" Alejandro asked, emerging from the area behind him where Stiles guessed there was a dresser and TV. "Well, I must say I'm disappointed, but I only need your consent once."

"What do you want?" Stiles asked boldly. "My father is the sheriff. He'll hunt you down."

"Really?" Alejandro asked, leaning forward to peer at Stiles gleefully. "That's incredible! You'll have a strong sense of moral justice, then, conditioned by a law enforcement officer. Excellent. You see, I'm more concerned about your friends, the children of Xolotl."

"The what of who?" Stiles asked, not following crazy-pant's reply whatsoever. The amount of weirdness kick-started his brain, though, and tried to jump to some cohesive conclusion. "Are you the hunter I talked to yesterday?"

"Hunter?" Alejandro, if his name even was Alejandro, stilled slightly. Good, let him be scared. "You spoke with a hunter about my arrival?"

"What?" Stiles asked, voice dead-panned. He stared at the man, who promptly sat on the bed and looked put out.

"Don't you remember? We only spoke momentarily yesterday, thanks to the rudeness of the alpha werewolf," Alejandro supplied.

"Oh my God," Stiles groaned. "Alejandro? Alexander. How are you doing the skin changing thing? And the eye thing?" He was so fascinated by the subject that he almost completely forgot to be alarmed at his paralysis.

"I am one and the same," the man replied, standing up and looming above Stiles. "But also, I am neither. My form changes." It was that kind of strange non-answer that suddenly reminded Stiles that he was locked in a motel room with a psychopath. Seriously, where were his werewolf pals?

Also, he was beginning to think this was not about vampires. Bummer.

"Um, why am I here?" Stiles asked nervously, eyes darting around the room for any signs of a machete, pick axe, basically anything that was sharp and dangerous and led to his premature death.

"Because I need you to know me," Alejandro replied evenly. "And then, I will kill you so that you can begin my mission in your afterlife."

"Uh, that's okay," Stiles replied quickly. "I'm good here. Alive. Maybe you can just come back in fifty years instead."

"No," Alejandro said, face sad as he gazed down at Stiles. "It must be now." Really, Stiles was not unfamiliar with panic attacks, and guessing by his breathing he was going to be forced to endure one any second now without even having bodily function. Awesome.

"So, uh, the getting to know you period--how long is that?" Stiles hedged, trying desperately to move his arm. At this rate, he would be happy with a finger.

"It will be momentary," Alejandro replied, stepping closer to Stiles, who would've flinched away if he could. "Let me show you." He extended a finger, placing it against Stiles's temple, and closed his eyes.

"Not to burst your bubble, but nothing's hap--" Stiles was interrupted by a burst of light travelling through his skull. It felt like a sharp headache and he blinked, struggling against it and whining in the back of his throat.

"Accept it," Alejandro instructed, applying harder pressure. Stiles had no choice but to comply.

Suddenly, he wasn't seeing the motel room, but a black void. Out of the void came a speck of light, which grew and became increasingly hot and bright. It exploded in every direction and suddenly galaxies were stretching in every direction, flowing out and growing, a universe with no edge. Then the image jerked forward, pulled into a small part of the cosmos, approaching the Milky Way galaxy quickly. The field narrowed down, widening again as it approached eight planets all aligned with a glistening, red-hot sun.

Earth loomed beautifully, the moon revolving lazily around the planet. Subtle shapes began moving across the face of the earth, continents forming and shifting, and suddenly bright explosions of vibrant color began to transform the land and the surface of the sea. As the vantage point zoomed closer to a land mass, creatures were born and died and extinct in less than a second. Time seemed to slow as more and more creations were revealed, more complex organisms dancing across the surface of the world.

Another bright explosion occurred, leaving behind a waste that began slowly to rebuild itself. Mammals populated the planet. And then came the gods. They shaped a species, Chose it, and changed it to fit their purposes. They instilled it with knowledge and free will, showed them how to survive and prosper, told them to worship. Mankind used their will subtly to rebel from the beginning, justifying war and terror by the will of the gods. They began to grow distant from their shaper-creators. The gods grew restless.

Once more, the field narrowed to a region of thick jungle and dusty plains. Oceans bordered the tapering land, jutting into an inverted J. The gods of this area were colorful, joyous and exuberant, deadly and combative. They were blamed for human sacrifice, feared for vengeance, adored for brutality. They flew or walked or watched, their forms mixed with animals--some recognizable, but most not. Finally, they gave up on man. But they bestowed on mankind prophecy, insisted on their return, and entrusted him with the world. They left.

Stiles was slammed back into his seat, ears ringing uncomfortably and eyes watering.

"Did you just--was that--am I on drugs?" Stiles asked, voice hoarse.

"No," Alejandro replied. Stiles looked up at him, flinching away and hearing a frightened whine slip from his throat. He could recognize the face before him now, knew its context, and wished to God--oh my God, there is more than ONE God!--that he was not currently seated in this particular room with this particular person. Person?

"Quetzalcoatl," Stiles whispered, voice reverent and frankly terrified.

"Yes," replied the god before him, reaching out to touch Stiles's cheek. "And you will be my vessel on this Earth."

"What?" Stiles asked. His brain was still recovering from SEEING THE BIG BANG.

"So, you see," the god replied, "why I must kill you." His hand slid from Stiles's cheek down to his neck.

Stiles, whose brain had somehow righted itself, managed to choke out, "I know about good-touch, bad-touch and this is definitely a bad touch." The god smiled, hooking his fingers into cloth.

"You are very funny," he said, elongated claws ripping through Stiles's t-shirt easily. "I hope that remains with you when I have finished."


	4. Enter Winchesters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all know that I'm just making this up as I go along. I only have a few scenes planned, and everything that happens along the way catches me by surprise just as much as you, I promise.
> 
> Keep commenting and I'll be tempted to post chapters even more quickly. <3

“Look,” Stiles panted, fighting to see past the black spots forming before his eyes, “let's just be reasonable about this.” The dark man before him divested him of his shirt completely before pausing and looking down at the teenager with obvious amusement.

“Certainly,” he responded. “You may ask me questions as I prepare the vessel, and I will attempt to give you reason.” He stepped away from Stiles, returning to the blind spot behind the restraining chair.

“What are you going to do to me?” Stiles asked immediately, noting the sound of rustling that he guessed was a bag full of the various implements for the agonizing murder about to take place.

“Your body must bear my sigil.” The god-person formerly known as Alejandro returned to Stiles's field of view, loosely holding a knife in hand. The blade itself was compact, but the handle peeking out was a long piece of wood, carved with square squiggles that looked vaguely like pictures.

It was at that point when Stiles felt his panic peaking. He was suddenly catapulted into tunnel vision as his lungs heaved in his unaccommodating chest. He could feel a bead of sweet trailing down the side of his face. The god frowned down at the brunette teen in consternation.

“What's happening to you?” Quetzalcoatl asked, kneeling before him and placing a comforting hand on his knee then reaching out to touch Stiles's brow lightly. Suddenly Stiles felt the absence of panic starkly, his lungs filling with air and forcing a cough.

“Panic attack,” Stiles muttered as he caught his breath. “Let me go if you're so worried about it.”

“I'm afraid that's not an option. I need to unleash your form and then inhabit you as my vessel,” Quetzalcoatl replied with a slight shake of the head.

“Why me?” Stiles demanded, caught somewhere between angry and frightened. Quetzalcoatl twirled the blade, holding it between the thumb and forefinger of each hand.

“It has to be you,” he replied, “because my blood is in you. Long ago, in the time of the gods, I walked this Earth in the form you see now. I shared blood with the lifeline of your ancestors. It flowed down many generations, mother to son, father to daughter. Until it reached you.”

“No,” Stiles replied. “No, no, no, no. I'm a Stilinski, and I'm pretty sure that's gotta be from somewhere European.”

“Yes,” Quetzalcoatl sighed, frustrated. “I am not mistaken. Your father bears the name Stilinski, but your mother is my descendant. Your name, Ehecatl, is one of my own.”

“I'm pretty sure her maiden name is Anderson,” Stiles murmured. His thoughts were becoming sluggish as he felt the onset of shock. Well, Mom had told him the story of the wind god he was named after.

“My descendents have spread far and wide. Few remain. I must insist on beginning the ritual now, as you have, as they say, called in the cavalry.” Stiles glanced up in surprise, wondering what he meant, before suddenly the blade was held against his left shoulder. “I am sorry for the discomfort it will cause you.”

Stiles bit back a scream of agony as the sharp point dug into his skin, his attention narrowing to the slicing motions as it dragged lines across his chest. His control slipped as the blade swooped down just above the sensitive skin around his nipple, and he yelled wordlessly.

“Shh,” Quetzalcoatl murmured. “You will not suffer long. This mark is the shape of my constellation, long forgotten by the short memory of humanity.” Stiles glared up at him angrily, mouth clamped shut in pain and righteous defiance.

“You've borne it all your life. You may take a look, if you choose,” Quetzalcoatl said, sweeping out of sight once more. The disappearing act was really getting old.

As surreptitiously as he could manage, Stiles tucked his chin into his chest, wincing as it nudged one of the cuts. He recognized the vague shape of a wing and a snake, and with a start realized that the slices bleeding profusely down his chest were linked between each mole and birthmark on his torso. Oh, he actually was possibly some holy vessel of a former god. That's interesting.

“Now, will you drink this?” Quetzalcoatl asked, holding an honest-to-god flagon of some unknown steaming beverage.

“Uh, no,” Stiles replied, voice ragged. The pain was getting easier to ignore. “Why would that be something I do? Ever.”

“Why must you all make this so difficult?” Quetzalcoatl whined, pouting slightly as he tossed his long hair over his shoulder. Stiles stared at him in disbelief.

“Hello, bleeding out here.” He gestured towards his chest with his chin.

“That's hardly enough blood to result in your death,” the clearly deranged god said. He sighed, continuing, “Your refusal doesn't matter. I will only have to be forceful now. You gave me your consent.”

“I thought you were hitting on me!” Stiles protested. “The only thing I consented to was getting the cell number of a hot stranger!” To his abject horror, his arm reached out to take the bottle without his control.

“Semantics,” the tanned man shrugged. “Drink.” Stiles's body did, though he attempted to spit it out until even that function was seized from his control. The liquid burned his mouth, and he felt it like fire racing down his throat. His chest burned from within, exacerbating the sting of the cuts across his chest.

Through the uncontrollable water filling his eyes, Stiles could make out Quetzalcoatl approaching with the blade once more in hand. He couldn't even feel the familiar edge of panic anymore, which made him angry. He'd been robbed of his anxiety the way this man was about to rob him of his life, probably. Well, fuck gods. He was going to fight any way he could to be the worst vessel this guy ever inhabited!

His anger carried him through the seconds it took for Quetzalcoatl to align the blade with his rabbit-fast heart. The Aztec god of creation, ironically, thrust in the knife that ended his mortality.

***

Stiles returned to consciousness abruptly, groaning. He closed his eyes against the sharp brightness of artificial lighting, feeling dizzily nauseated.

“I'm alive?”

“Yes,” Quetzalcoatl responded from before him. “I've restored your form.” Stiles blinked his eyes open, clearing them of the unshed tears from moments ago as they struggled to adjust.

From behind him came a strange whispering noise like cloth rubbing together or pages fluttering. His back ached uncomfortably, but he was surprised to find that his chest felt fine. He glanced down, amazed to see raised scar, still blood-stained from being fresh cuts only minutes prior. There was also a horizontal cut, merely the width of a blade, through the center of his chest.

As Quetzalcoatl wiped the bloody point of the knife on Stiles's jeans (thanks, buddy), Stiles realized that he'd regained control of his body. He sat back in the chair abruptly to escape, but squeaked in pain. He froze.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noted for the first time a colorful shape. As if his attention had summoned it, the shape swooped forward until Stiles realized dully that he was looking at a wing. A bright, neon rainbow wing. A bright, neon rainbow wing that he was 99% certain was coming out of his back.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice broke manfully. Quetzalcoatl laughed uncharitably, backing away from Stiles and his chair, and perching once again on the edge of the bed.

Stiles stood quickly, cautiously edging around the bed as he tried to move towards the mirror without exposing his back to the god cheerfully reclining on the bed. He narrowed his eyes at the man before he spun around, taking in his new appearance.

As he suspected, the wings were definitely jutting out of his back. They were also magnificent, spreading effortlessly into an eight foot span. Feathers of many colors were revealed, some overlapping as they faded. Stiles leaned forward excitedly, wondering how exactly they were controlled and holy shit, can I fly?

His eyes, too, were changed. His pupils had completely overtaken his iris, leaving a gaping black that actually looked incredibly creepy. He shivered slightly. Otherwise, his body was the same with the exception of his new scars. He spun around to face the god.

“What now?” Stiles demanded.

“You were created to be my vessel,” Quetzalcoatl replied. “My spirit will inhabit you so that I may meet my rival Tezcatlipoca in battle.”

“How does that work?” Stiles asked, shifting towards the chair as he mentally measured the distance to the door. Quetzalcoatl was poised to answer when, thankfully, the universe finally decided enough was enough.

The door to the motel room burst open as two strangers forced their way inside.

“Heya, creep,” the shorter of the two greeted, leveling a pearl-handled gun on the god. “Long time no see. Looks like we interrupted you before you could do your freaky soul bond ritual. You know, the one that's killed four people now.”

Stiles squeaked, eyes widening as his eyes flew to the bed, which predictably was empty. He glanced around the room and found only himself and the two intruders.

“Uh, hi,” he offered, confused. Thankfully, the guy lowered his weapon as he stepped further into the room.

“Wow, look at you,” the guy said, approaching him. As he got closer, Stiles took in his appearance. While he was shorter than the other man, he stood a few inches taller than Stiles himself. He was slightly tanned, with long eyelashes framing green eyes that were currently lingering on Stiles's (frankly, impressive) feathery plumage.

“I'm Dean. That's Sam.” Dean gestured towards his brother, who had shut the door and was now peeking out of the blinds at the parking lot.

“Stiles,” the teen offered. “Don't kill me, I'm just an innocent bystander. The wing thing is new.” Dean grinned wide. “Wait a minute, did you say Sam?” His gaze flicked to the other brother. “As in, SamfortheWin?”

“Yeah,” the taller guy crossed the room, smiling sheepishly as he extended a hand. His hair flopped into his eyes as they shook hands. “Sam Winchester. Nice to meet the SourpackKid in all his werewolf-loving glory.”

“Oh, God,” Stiles groaned, face-palming. “I've gotta find my phone.” He circled the room, searching for any sign of the hoodie he'd been wearing earlier and found it tossed near the bedside. Feeling slightly self-conscious, he pulled it on backwards and unzipped since—wings.

He pulled his phone out of the pocket quickly, noting seven missed calls and an even dozen unopened texts. He read those first, starting with the oldest and finishing on the new.

'Stiles, where are you?'  
'I know I shouldn't have said that earlier, but this is pack business.'  
'STILES.'  
'D called asking 4 u he sounds pissed'  
'Are you avoiding Derek because of your adorable little crush? Man up, sweetie!'  
'dude starting to get worried'  
'Hey, Stiles, I talked to my Dad and he said hunters will probably still come.'  
'If you're ignoring me, stop.'  
'Man, I already don't like you. Get Derek to stop being an ass or I'll hunt you down myself.'  
'ur dad called me man where are u??'  
'Please.'  
'Disregard previous. We're coming to find you.'

“You done playing Angry Birds?” Dean asked gruffly, stepping closer to him. “We really need to get out of this room and into somewhere we can keep you safe until he comes back.”

“I'm a gay pride version of Angel from freaking X-men,” Stiles pointed out balefully. “I'm pretty sure we'll get a lot of attention anywhere we go.” Sam huffed a laugh as Dean rolled his eyes.

“Cas,” Dean called. Stiles was startled by the presence he registered in his peripheral vision and turned his head instinctively. He cried out in alarm as he noticed the searing bright light surrounding a vaguely human shape. His eyes blinked and suddenly it was a man before him, standing in a trench coat and slightly untidy business suit.

“Castiel, Stiles. Stiles, Castiel.” Dean gestured between the two of them. “We have our own Angel.” Castiel frowned slightly, which Stiles noticed only because he was used to focusing on slight changes of expression from a certain Sourwolf. With this reminder, he peered back down at his phone.

“Sorry, gotta let my friends know I'm alive. Sorta,” Stiles said. Sam crossed the room quickly, plucking the phone out of his hands before he managed to send off a text.

“It's probably for the best if no one else gets involved,” Sam told him, apologetic.

“You don't understand,” Stiles protested. “You really want me to send that text, trust me.” He was promptly ignored.

“Cas, can you take him back to our room across town? We'll meet you in fifteen,” Dean said, eyes flicking to meet the bright blue of Castiel's, who merely looked on stonily. “I'll bring you cheeseburgers.”

“That would be acceptable,” came Castiel's voice finally, a rougher deep sound than Stiles had anticipated.

“Ooh, I want curly fries,” Stiles managed to add excitedly, just before Castiel moved forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. He felt a sharp tug in his stomach before he suddenly found himself in a different, slightly nicer-looking motel room. This one had two beds.

Stiles stumbled forward slightly to sit on the corner of one. He glanced up at Castiel questioningly.

“Uh, so, you're a hunter?” Stiles asked.

“I am an angel of the Lord,” Castiel intoned. “I watch over Dean Winchester. And Sam.” Stiles smiled slightly at the wording, immediately categorizing Dean and Castiel's lingering glance earlier as some kind of unresolved sexual tension.

“You're really an angel. So that light I saw earlier was your angel form or something?” Stiles was curious, internally taking notes and already compiling what he would be adding to the hunter's information index later. Well, assuming he survived this strangeness.

“Most cannot lay eyes upon my true form,” Castiel acknowledged, inclining his head slightly.

“Awesome,” Stiles breathed. He was pretty proud of himself and how he was responding to all this. Angels and multiple gods and dying. He deserved some kind of medal, or at least a gold star.

Just as it was starting to get awkwardly silent, with Castiel standing unmoving across the room, Stiles heard a sound he immediately recognized. A howl of rage cut through the air, sounding distant yet close enough to reverberate around his skull and the room in turn.

“Oh,” Stiles informed, “and that would be why I really should've sent that text.”


	5. Laugh It Up, Fuzzball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, I'm sorry, I love you.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to my lovelies (alphabetically): Erikaxtc, Laurahasfeels, Minerva, Mizixy, Violentdisaster... If you've reviewed, I dedicate this to you! And, of course, to Arvilla the Thirteenth.

Stiles turned to Castiel with a smirk, surprised to find the room empty. Frowning, he glanced around. On one bed was a bag that was just asking to be rifled through. Stiles inched towards it. Served the kidnappers right if he found something interesting, incriminating, or illegal.

As soon as he poked at the zipper, Stiles was startled by the angel's abrupt return.

"It seems that some of your friends are going to be more troublesome than we anticipated," Castiel intoned, his deep voice sounding vaguely aggravated.

"Oh, yeah," Stiles replied sarcastically. "Werewolves are the ones who are trouble. They have these weird ideas about territory and protecting the pack."

Castiel's face scrunched into a frown. Stiles arched an eyebrow, incredulously thinking that perhaps Sam had forgotten to mention the small, unimportant WEREWOLF part to the divine creature.

"Well, anyway, it would probably be better if you just let me go. Or do your little disappearing act before Derek gets here and gnaws off your great big, invisible wings," Stiles informed cheerfully.

Castiel glanced at him appraisingly, then stared at the wall opposite with determination.

"Dean asked you to stay here for your protection. I am responsible for you in the meantime," Cas finally said. Stiles wondered how the man managed to make even his disheveled trench coat appear serious.

He shrugged, throwing himself onto one of the beds, acutely aware of the new appendages jutting out of his back. He spent a frustrated moment flailing before settling awkwardly onto his stomach. It was so hard to look nonchalant when wings are suddenly, magically thrust upon you.

After a few minutes, Stiles was beginning to feel a little disappointed. He may or may not have anticipated Derek (and any number of the betas) bursting through the door after the impressive howl he'd heard earlier. The longer he sat, the more he docked points from their awesomeness score.

In fact, the hunters managed to show up first. Dean waltzed into the room with gusto and a certain amount of swagger, holding white doggy bags from Stiles's favorite local diner.

Stiles sat up on the bed, trying and failing to look disinterested in the food. Dean smirked, tossing him a bag that clearly bore a cheeseburger and curly fries.

"Ran into your friend Argent at the diner," Dean informed him, tossing another bag of burgers to Castiel who, Stiles was shocked to observe, finally showed an expression: breathless enthusiasm.

"Seriously, dude. It's really sad if the first place your friends start looking for you is the town diner eating a slice of pie," Sam said with a teasing grin.

"Hey, that pie is delicious," Stiles protested, then flushed bright red. "Not that I do that. They're looking for me because they heard you psychos were going to show up." He stuffed fries into his mouth happily.

"I dunno," Sam replied, "Chris seemed to be surprised to learn you were in our custody."

"Oh, that Argent," Stiles said, rolling his eyes. "We are definitely not friends. More like, mortal enemies who work together for the sake of his lovely teenage daughter. The one who's the girlfriend of my best friend, otherwise known as the worst werewolf in the history of ever."

Dean made a vague noise of acknowledgement, chewing around his burger. Apparently, he had gotten the werewolf memo. Stiles shifted his gaze to Castiel stealthily, watching him frown slightly as he reached the same conclusion.

"So, what are we going to do then?" Stiles asked. "Paint each others' toenails and braid our hair until Quetzalcoatl shows up?"

"You bet, sugar," Dean said, batting his eyelashes as he faked a smile.

"Quetzalcoatl," Sam repeated, testing the word as he typed it into Stiles's phone browser. Stiles made a huffing noise of protest, but shrugged it off in favor of unwrapping his hamburger.

"We don't exactly know how to lure him," Sam admitted readily. "We didn't even know his name until just now. So, you're kind of our best shot at baiting a trap at the moment. We have to keep you close until he decides to show his face."

"Great," Stiles groaned. "I'll tell you what I told him," he nodded at Castiel, "you really need to let me talk to my friends or the pack is going to rip your throats out. With their teeth." He made grabby hands at the phone Same held.

Stiles had a semi-second to notice Dean tensing up and grabbing for his gun, before the door slammed inwards. What a bad day for the doors of Beacon Hills's motels. From the doorway, specifically the livid alpha werewolf standing inside it, came a terrifying rumbling that made Stiles's hair stand on end.

Derek stepped forward, menacing, until he caught sight of Stiles and froze completely. His eyes widened uncharacteristically, looking stunned. Stiles wanted to laugh until he realized that Derek's gaze was focused on the wings protruding from his back.

His wings, which were currently spread wide behind him and seemed to be vibrating. Stiles blinked at them, then back at Derek, whose face was trying to school itself into some variation of poker face rather than the apparent wonderment.

"Um," Stiles said, coloring bright red in embarrassment. "I'm not doing that. Why are they doing that?" He reached one hand over his shoulder, trying to ruffle the shifting feathers into submission.

From his corner of the room, Castiel snorted. This was, apparently, Derek's reminder that there were other people in the room besides himself and the newly fascinating wing-bearer. The deep scowl was back on his face instantaneously as he loped across the room to stand before Stiles, shielding him from the hunters who hadn't even bothered to move yet.

"We can explain," Sam offered lightly.

"They're friends, not foes," Stiles said. "Sort of. They did kidnap me, but only after I was already kidnapped. It’s more like a little-nap after rescuing me.” Derek half-turned to glare over his shoulder at the infuriating teen.

"I could smell your blood all over the other room. I could smell death, and you were gone," Derek managed to spit out, his eyes glowing red. Stiles blinked at him, realizing that he was barely restraining the urge to shift.

"Well, technically I died," Stiles murmured. "But I'm mostly fine now."

Derek turned forcibly away from him, gaze returning to Sam and Dean.

"Look, we can just give you the short version and everyone can calm down and eat some cheeseburgers," Dean said, snorting. He took a bite of aforementioned burger dismissively.

Wrong move. Derek crossed the room in a few strides, forcibly grabbing Dean by the collar of his jacket and lifting him from the chair.

"Tell me," Derek informed evenly, pulling Dean between himself and Sam who had grabbed for his own gun. Stiles wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or dismayed by the human meat-shielding.

"Put him down," Castiel said, voice surprisingly loud from such a relatively innocent presence, from startlingly close to Derek. Stiles admired his bravado, and really needed to learn that teleporting? trick.

"Boys, really," Stiles huffed. "Cut it out. Why can't we be friends?" He hummed a few bars of the familiar tune under his breath helpfully. 

After a few seconds of frozen consideration, the tension eased slightly. Derek let go of Dean's army green lapels, Sam released the handle of his gun, and Castiel returned to sitting in his darkened corner.

"Great," Stiles said. "Now let's act like grown-ups and talk this over. I know we can do it if we just try."

"I like you, kid," Dean said, smirking over at the bed. Derek snarled out a wordless warning, backing a few steps to Stiles’s side without taking his eyes off the shorter Winchester.

“Uh, anyone mind if I close the door?” Sam asked the room in general, gesturing to where it was still teetering precariously as it hung half-opened on its injured hinges.

“Leave it,” Derek snapped quickly. “My betas will catch the scent soon enough.” Sam shrugged half-heartedly, reaching out to eat some fries instead.

“Hey, how’d you find me anyway?” Stiles asked Derek’s tense back, cocking his head slightly. Derek replied without even glancing back.

“We were looking for your body… I tracked your scent.” With a wave of understanding, Stiles suddenly recalled what Derek had said in the heat of the moment--his friends, his pack had thought that he was dead, and Derek had howled for his loss.

Touched, Stiles reached out to rest his fingers gently on Derek’s wrist in reassurance. He snatched them back quickly as he felt his wings convulsing again. As he focused, he realized that he could feel their presence now, and could constrict them into stillness.

No one in the room missed his fluttery movements, but thankfully no one brought attention to it. Instead, Dean arched an eyebrow as he began his short version of the day’s events and the hunter’s current case.

“We found out about this hunt two months ago, after the first death. It was kept under the radar, considering the interesting… mutation involved with the victim.” Here, he nodded towards Stiles’s wings. “To be honest, though, you’re the prettiest so far. All the others only had white feathers.” He leered roguishly at the teen, ignoring the way Derek seemed to grow taller in order to more effectively loom angrily.

“Great,” Stiles huffed a laugh. “Mama always told me I was special.”

“We tracked the guy down around La Grange, Texas right before the last death,“ Sam continued. “It was almost three weeks ago now. Dean and I have been trying to find a pattern, but we honestly couldn’t see any way to predict where he’d pop up next.”

“He just wants me for my body,” Stiles informed them, grinning. “Seriously. He mentioned my bloodline, so we should be able to do some kind of genealogy tree to see if there’s anyone else he might go after now that you interrupted his freaky murder-resurrection ritual.” Sam nodded agreement.

“Sounds good,” Dean affirmed. “But I’m getting the sense that your Mom has the right idea about you, Kid.”

“Had,” Stiles corrected simply. He glanced uncomfortably away from the sympathetic look on Sam’s face, instead focusing on the slight droop of Derek’s (incredibly muscular) shoulders.

“How do we kill whoever did this?” Derek asked, his voice radiating controlled anger.

“Oh,” Stiles said, surprised. “Sorry, it’s Quetzalcoatl. He’s an Aztec God, and I’m pretty sure he’s immortal. Immortal like, live forever. God like, probably immune to everything, too.”

“Not necessarily,” Sam said thoughtfully.

“In our experience, everything has a weakness,” Dean offered through a bite of cheeseburger. Stiles was reminded of his own food and, shrugging, began to eat his curly fries in earnest.

“Then what, exactly, is your plan?” Derek asked, some of his aggression finally flagging. The alpha fell out of his combative stance, crossing his arms instead.

Dean’s gaze shifted to Stiles pointedly, eyebrows raising.

“No,” Derek shot down immediately. “Stiles is not going to be bait.” Instead of assuming his power pose, as Stiles expected, the irritated wolf slunk over to the bed, perching on the edge and eyeing Stiles’s fries.

“It’s all we have to go on, man,” Sam told him apologetically. “Like we said, we have no idea how to track him down and he seems focused on Stiles pretty exclusively. We don’t even know what his motivation is.”

“I do,” Stiles volunteered. “He said there’s going to be one of those epic, world-changing fights between him and a rival god. But apparently they can only battle royale after they get some poor human saps to consent to having themselves murdered and possessed.” He smiled innocently at their astonished blinks.

Derek gazed at him evenly, the familiar worried crease between his eyebrows making an appearance.

“You consented to this?” Derek asked, voice quiet and private, an unfamiliar tone of uncertainty. Stiles shook his head rapidly.

“No! Jesus. It's a long story. I thought he was some guy in a coffee shop hitting on me. Oh! Sorry about that, by the way. Didn’t mean to cut and run on our date, but I was slightly kidnapped.” Derek flushed. Stiles’s wings quivered until he glared them into submission.

“I know everyone’s thinking about our next move,” Stiles said to the room, “but can someone tell me why my wings keep doing that?” He gestured up at them, where they were fully extended in a colorful spread behind his shoulders. Surprising everyone, it was Castiel who spoke.

“Are you familiar with the tropical aviary species commonly called the bird of paradise?” His voice held an edge of amusement, though his face remained carefully blank. Stiles shook his head slightly. “They have a particularly interesting mating ritual, in which their feathers--”

He was cut off by Stiles’s mortified moan, as the teen twisted his body to bury his head into the bed. The room erupted in amused laughter at his expense. Even Derek had managed a small chuckle, Stiles noticed with chagrin.

“Laugh it up, fuzz ball,” Stiles managed to choke out of his suddenly constricted throat. The edge of Derek‘s mouth quirked up slightly.

“I understood that reference,” Castiel informed the room, which Stiles assumed was a rare occurrence from the way Dean brightened perceptibly.

“Very funny,” Stiles muttered. “Let’s forget that joke ever happened and get back to the life-changing fact that I’m undead and a powerful entity wants to claim my body as his own.” Castiel’s face registered slight confusion, but he refrained from speaking. Derek’s mouth lost its amused tilt.

“So if you won’t let us involve the SourpackKid, what do you suggest we do?” Dean asked Derek, a challenging set to his jaw. “This is your territory, and Stiles is supposed to be one of your own, so technically you should be more invested in kicking Pretzel-whatever’s ass than we are.”

Stiles sat up straight, watching Derek’s metaphoric hackles rise. He hoped he wouldn’t have to try to mediate some hunter-werewolf pissing contest, considering the already trying day he’d had. Of course he would get the super-special rainbow wings that try to seduce his hot alpha friend.

“I really don’t think we have any other options,” Stiles consoled, involuntarily reaching for Derek’s wrist again. Stiles couldn’t bring himself to be embarrassed when Derek shifted into his touch slightly.

“Fine,” Derek acquiesced. “But the pack is going to be with you at all times. We’re not leaving you alone with these hunters.” His eyes darted, accusing, among the three men in the room.

“Okay,” Stiles agreed. “Oh hey, I guess I can have my phone back now, right?” He looked at Sam hopefully, who tossed the black case easily onto the bed. Stiles snatched it up happily, texting Scott his location and knowing that it would be spread to the other pack members quickly.

“You probably shouldn’t go home tonight,” Sam informed him. “It’ll make it easier to protect you, and keep your house from becoming a target.”

“You can stay in my bed,” Dean offered, winking lasciviously. Stiles laughed aloud. His eyes trailed, typically, to Derek’s familiar intense scowl until he was struck with a terrifying thought.

“Oh my god,” he groaned, wings folding close and brushing over his shoulders as he hunched in on himself, “what am I going to tell my Dad?”


	6. Revenge Whatever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles manages an awkward conversation with his Dad that, surprisingly, mostly revolves around sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, dear readers. I'm uploading this chapter even though it's actually about half the length of the others because you deserve it, and I haven't finished the last four hundred of the second half. SO have this mini-chapter, the next one should be up by tomorrow at the latest.
> 
> The good news is that I'm home from my holiday travels, and can be absolutely dedicated to eliciting your marriage proposals and adoration once more. c:
> 
> I love you all! But this chapter is dedicated solely to Arvilla because she's a ball-busting motivator, guys. Thanks for that!

"Obviously not the truth," Dean said around his last bite of hamburger. "We've got enough trouble with the law."

"Unsurprisingly," Derek muttered under his breath. Stiles huffed a small laugh, shaking the tension out of his wings. He noted to himself that he'd have to play around with them soon, if only to figure out if he was actually capable of flight--which, awesome!

"I'll give him a call," Stiles decided, sighing to himself. He stood up, rolling his shoulders to pop them lightly. When he concentrated, he could feel his wings protruding easily. Quietly, he shuffled to the enclosed bathroom, shutting himself inside for privacy from the hunters. Derek would still hear, which actually managed to comfort him slightly.

The line rang a few times as he stood in silence. His father answered finally, sounding almost breathless in alarm.

"Stiles, where are you? I talked to Scott and he said he left you at the coffee shop hours ago. And then I had some barrista calling from the coffee shop who said you'd left with a stranger, but you looked like you'd been drugged." Stiles could hear his Dad's sheriff-voice bleeding into his concerned-Dad voice rather effectively.

"I'm fine, Dad, just... actually, it's about that guy," Stiles improvised suddenly. "The one I left with? We're, uh, hanging out together." Through the line, his Dad groaned.

"Really, Stiles? This is how this has to go?" He could imagine his Dad, hand shielding his eyes as if Stiles's ridiculous was a physical thing he could block from his sight.

"How what has to go?" Stiles asked innocently.

"Your whole... coming out thing?" Dad said uncertainly, almost palpably uncomfortable. Stiles flushed brightly.

"Um, I guess?" Stiles replied. "You knew?"

"I sorta suspected when you stopped rambling to me about Lydia Martin's entire outfit a couple years ago. Also, you started mentioning Derek Hale a lot when he got back to town. Don't think my deputies haven't mentioned seeing the Jeep heading out towards the Preserve," his Dad's stern voice returned.

"Oh my God," Stiles groaned. At least Dad hadn't brought it up before which, in its own way, was kind of approval? "Okay. Sorry about that. But, uh, you see why I'll be... unavailable tonight, right?"

"You fight with your boyfriend or something?" The sheriff asked, hesitantly consoling. "It's not like you to just pick up strangers. I really thought you were better than revenge... whatever." Oh, there's the awkwardness.

"Dad!" Stiles exclaimed. "He's not my boyfriend! We're just friends. And, uh, let's never ever talk about 'revenge' whatever, or 'regular' whatever... ever!"

"Fine with me," his Dad replied. "Just, be safe. Wear a condom. All of that." Stiles made dying-whale noises. "Okay, good talk, son. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Bye, Dad," Stiles mumbled before disconnecting quickly. He didn't want to open to the door to see Derek's face--Derek, who probably heard both sides of that conversation with his stupid werewolf hearing. He lingered a moment then exited anyway.

Stiles was happily surprised as Scott launched himself into his arms quickly. His arms wrapped tightly around Stiles's shoulders, resting uncomfortably close to the base of his wings. They parted as Scott seemed to realize his embarrassing position.

"Uh, hi," Stiles said into Scott's shaking shoulders.

"Dude," Scott sniffled, "you were dead. I could smell it! It was terrible." His eyes looked puffy and red against his tan skin.

"I'm good," Stiles reassured him. "Except, now I've got these." He gestured over his shoulder to his wings, which Scott took in with wide eyes and open mouth.

"Can you fly now?" Scott asked, grinning. "And what's up with your eyes? Can you see in the dark?"

"Those are totally what I thought of first, too," Stiles said, throwing an arm around his best friend's shoulders. "Don't know yet. But we've got more important things to worry about, like the guy who killed me."

"Right," Scott replied, turning back to the room full of men. Stiles remarked that the motel room probably had reached its maximum occupant capacity and they wouldn't be able to fit any more inside, no matter the level of hotness. Aw, poor Jackson would have to wait outside. And Lydia, for that matter.

"Where are the others?" Derek the total mind-reader asked Scott, his eyebrows rolling together into his trademark scowl.

"I texted them," Scott replied uneasily. "They should be here soon." Dean groaned from his seat.

"Seriously, remember when I said as few as possible? It's like in one magically superior ear and out the other with you people," the taller brother muttered.

"We're not going to help you without the full force of our pack," Derek replied, fang flashing in the yellow light cast from inferior bulbs.

"Luckily, we don't need your help," Dean replied bitchily, "just his." He gestured at Stiles with his pearl-handled gun. Actually, Stiles found himself wanting to look closer at their guns. Was that a customized Taurus he could spot?

"He's part of the Hale pack," Derek replied tightly.

"He's a human, though," Sam replied, voice surprised. He sat forward in his chair attentively.

"Yeah, we got over that a while ago," Stiles replied flippantly, waving his wrist in dismissal. "I had some convenient magical qualities before that kinda made up for it. Also, I was a pretty good researcher, so they kept me around."

"That's not why," Derek sounded pained to have to admit. "We don't keep some 'pet human' for convenience, Stiles. You're a valuable member of the pack." A strange silence filled the room momentarily.

"Okay," Stiles mumbled, blushing. "Well, confession time over. I think waiting in this room is a stupid idea. We need to plan something actively offensive. Take him by surprise."

"And, how do you propose we do that?" Sam asked, eyebrow quirking upwards.

"Well, first we'll need more information about who we're up against," Stiles replied, the cogs in his brain beginning to turn quickly. "See if there's anything useful in the literature, just like with anything else we've been up against."

"Information," Sam repeated slowly. "Okay, we can take you to the strongest supernatural library we know of."

"You're not taking him anywhere," Derek growled, standing quickly from the bed. Stiles reached out, resting a comforting hand on his leather-clad shoulder.

"We need all the help we can get," Stiles said, grip tightening as if he thought Derek might shrug him off. "So, yeah, they're probably going to escort me to this library so we can find something useful that'll help our pack."

Derek looked at him, and Stiles was shocked to see a flash of helplessness in his gaze before it froze into a more manageable gruffness. Derek rolled Stiles's hand off his shoulder easily.

"I'm coming with you," the alpha finally muttered, acquiescing.

"Me, too," Scott chimed helpfully from beside his best friend.

"No, you're not," Derek ordered, voice full of alpha power. "You and the pack will have to stay here and defend our territory, and let us know if you encounter Quetzalcoatl." Stiles was absurdly pleased with the way Derek remembered the name's pronunciation.

"But, Derek," Scott whined. "I want to help protect Stiles, too. He's my best friend and I almost lost him." Derek's expression changed from dour to stormy in seconds.

"He's my... friend, and I lost him, too," Derek replied evenly, actually trying not to shout. "But you have to stay here. This is the way you can help Stiles the most right now."

Scott turned his mournful puppy eyes to Stiles, who tried to smile encouragingly. Damn those eyes, but no. He must hold strong and agree with whatever Derek wants, so he'll stop digging his claws into his palm over there.

"So, I'm less and less convinced of the whole control thing you tried to convince us of on the forums, SourpackKid," Sam joked from his seat, grinning. Stiles grinned back as best he could, while silently agreeing.


	7. Our Alpha and Our... Stiles

Lydia and Jackson showed up a few tense moments after, though Stiles was glad to see Allison wasn't with them. As it so happens, her father had been almost gleefully delighted with the arrival of the infamous Winchesters and had ordered her to return home hastily.

Stiles was relieved that there was one less person to worry about in this mess. Lydia and Jackson had meant that the hunters and angel were now officially outnumbered by supernatural beings in the room, which resulted in a silent stand-off on opposite sides of the room. (Stiles was annoyed that his hot-people occupancy was off by two, but such is life--his life, anyway.)

"So, what you're saying is that you're going to haul away our Alpha and our... Stiles to some undisclosed destination in the middle of some crisis with an ancient Aztec god, and we're just supposed to let you?" Lydia asked incredulously, one beautifully arched eyebrow raised.

"Well, when you put it like that it sounds worse," Dean said, smiling openly at the redhead in a way that was probably intended as flirtatious. Stiles resisted rolling his eyes, though predictably Lydia didn't.

"We're going with them," Derek said decidedly. "We're going to accept the help they're offering. The three of you will stay behind and patrol, look out for the scent we found in the other room, and call me if something interesting happens."

Stiles was perched on the edge of the bed, flicking his gaze between the hunters and his packmates. Jackson scowled with equal vehemence at everyone he looked at--werewolf, human, or otherwise. Lydia had her arms crossed, her pink painted fingernails tapping her arms in irritation. Scott seemed subdued, throwing longing glances towards the space on the bed beside Stiles.

Derek stood, his body turned towards his pack as much as possible without exposing his back to the strangers. Stiles noticed then, while he could watch unabashed, that he stood confidently and purposefully. His back was straight, bearing the obvious strength of his form. Not for the first time, Stiles felt the desire to curl his body around him.

"So, hey," Stiles addressed the brothers and Castiel, "where exactly are we going? I'm sure everyone would feel better if we could leave them the location--at least then, if you draw and quarter us they'll know where to find the bodies." He grinned helpfully.

"We can't exactly give you the address," Sam replied slowly. "Not that we don't want to, it just... doesn't have one. But we can give you vague directions?"

"Good enough for me," Stiles agreed easily. Derek huffed behind him, which everyone ignored decidedly. Sam scribbled onto a piece of the hotel-provided note paper and offered it to the alpha quickly.

"So, let's get this show on the road," Dean announced, standing from his seat and stretching obscenely so that his plaid jacket and blue t-shirt hiked upwards. Stiles ignored it pointedly, okay maybe not so much, but give him a break he's an eighteen year old male virgin. "It's kind of a long drive."

"I'll follow you in my Camaro," Derek informed the hunters, narrowing his eyes as if to dare them to question his super alpha control.

"Uh, well," Sam mumbled, "probably not for the best, but we'll deal."

"Great!" Stiles exclaimed. "Awesome! Road trip." He laughed lightly, standing up from the bed and feeling the flutter of his wings behind him. Making light of the situation was his specialty, after all.

The hunters started puttering around, collecting items and stuffing them into the backpack he'd tried to sneak a glance inside earlier. He pouted, remembering the failed attempt, but resigning himself to mystery about the people supposedly helping them.

Derek ducked his head quickly, jerking it towards the door. The pack seemed to know what he meant immediately, filing out of the door. He turned quickly, his eyebrows rising. Stiles took the hint, rushing out the door with a tentative smile.

Once outside, Derek shut the door forcefully behind them.

"I don't like this at all," Lydia muttered under her breath. "Worst case, you'll be led into a trap and they'll ambush you with other hunters. I wouldn't put it past them."

"I would," Stiles frowned, his head tilting slightly at her vehemence. "I mean, I know them, sort of. I know everyone on the forums, and none of them came across as crazy psychopaths like Kate. Sorry, Derek." His apology didn't seem to help Derek's shoulders recede from their angry hunch. "I think they're trying to help."

"Then why lie about the vampires?" Derek demanded, his eyes intensely boring into the side of Stiles's defenseless face.

"I don't know," Stiles replied evenly, frowning at the alpha. "I haven't gotten to ask yet, but it's close to the top of the list."

"I didn't even think of that," Scott said, entering the conversation with a little insistence. "What if they don't follow the Code? Allison's Dad liked them, doesn't that mean they're douchebags?"

"Guys," Stiles protested, "seriously? We have no idea what we've gotten into. We have no way to fight a demi-god-thing, and I don't exactly have a library full of lore. We're trusting them on this until they've proven we shouldn't." He looked to Derek for agreement, trying to convey certainty in his expression.

Derek sighed dramatically, nodding his head slightly as he gazed off into the distance.

"Great! We're all agreed," Stiles managed, ignoring the betas' attempts at objecting. "I'll text you some of the directions as we're driving, and periodically every few hours. If I stop, you can drag yourselves after us and take down the badies. Okay? Okay."

With that, Stiles marched over to the door and knocked easily.

"Done with your pow-wow?" Dean asked, leaning against the door frame. Stiles nodded wordlessly, turning back to the pack. Derek gestured at them minutely and slowly, reluctantly, the betas shuffled out of the parking lot towards the main part of town.

"We need a ride to my car," Derek grumbled. The Winchesters exited, closing the door behind them without Castiel trailing behind them. All four piled into the black '67 Impala that Stiles was not shy about admiring. The trip across town took little time at all.

"Nice wheels," Dean admitted to Derek as they paused beside the '10 Camaro.

"Thanks," Derek managed to say without growling as he shoved open the door and pulled Stiles along with him. It occurred to the teen suddenly that they were about to be locked in a car alone for an undetermined amount of time. Ugh, seriously? His Dad's conversation popped into his head and he was suddenly full of embarrassed dread. Here goes nothing.


	8. Maybe, Just A Little Bit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand-billion apologies for my long absence. Hope you enjoy some boys who don't know how to flirt to save their lives, also how do feelings?
> 
> Follow me on tumblr (geekfighter) and send me messages about how I should update more. c:

“Your heartbeat's wrong.”

To be fair, Stiles wasn't exactly expecting a love confession as soon as he'd eased the Camaro's door closed, but that was definitely out of left field. He blinked, pulling the seat belt across his chest while awkwardly trying to arrange his wings. It had been decidedly easier in the back of the Winchesters's Impala.

“Uh, I have a heartbeat?” Stiles asked with a half-laugh. “That's nice to know. Wrong, how?”

“Just different,” Derek replied, frowning as he shifted gears and trailed the black classic car closely. Stiles could sense a genuine discomfort in the alpha and felt, maybe, just a little bit, touched.

“It's probably to compensate for the wings,” he found himself offering quickly. “Or something. Or the fact that I died, that'd do it.” Naming them brought his attention to the appendages jutting from his back.

“God,” Stiles groaned, “I really hope this isn't a long car ride. These things are uncomfortable in general, let alone mashed up against your passenger seat.”

Stiles then turned his fleeting attention to the radio, turning it on and flipping through a few stations. He grew impatient with the selection quickly, but settled on a classic rock channel. Beside him, Derek exhaled slowly.

“You smell different, too.” Stiles blinked over at the werewolf incredulously, tilting his head in a way far too reminiscent of a bird, considering the wings. “There are wet wipes in the glove compartment, for the blood.”

In all honesty, Stiles had forgotten almost completely about the dried blood across his chest that was currently flaking all over the inside of his hoodie.

“Good idea,” he murmured, retrieving them quickly. He paused, holding the package in his hands, as it finally occurred to him that it would require the removal of clothes in order to properly wipe himself down. Being half-naked beside his sexual fantasy in his super-hot Camaro. Stiles bit back a squeak.

For his part, Derek seemed completely unaware and at ease in the driver's seat. His hands rested comfortably on the bottom of the wheel and Stiles narrowed his eyes at how easily relaxed he looked.

'Fuck it,' Stiles thought definitively as he tugged off his jacket. If Derek was gonna act all disinterested about it, he could pretend to do the same. Unsurprisingly, it took the entire package of wet wipes for the streaks of blood to finally be cleared away.

Of course, then he found himself awkwardly holding a handful of used wipes. He glanced around the interior of the car, distressed, before folding them as small as possible to shove back into the packaging plastic.

“You're ridiculous,” Derek finally spoke, grabbing the plastic from Stiles's lap without taking his eyes from the road. Before Stiles could object, the alpha was rolling down his window and tossing out the trash carelessly.

“You just littered!” Stiles protested loudly. “That's so bad for the environment. Think of the woodland creatures, Derek. They'll choke on used wet wipes and die, and then what will you eat when you're running around on full moon nights?”

Derek glared over at him, though the expression lacked its usual bite. Stiles quieted momentarily, then forged along steadily.

“So, do I smell better now?” Stiles grinned helplessly as he asked.

“Not really,” Derek replied with a half-shrug. “Still different. Not bad,” he tacked on, as if sensing Stiles's sudden and overwhelming feelings of despair.

“Yeah, sure,” the teen said slowly. He decided to throw caution and subtlety to the wind. “So, you want to tell me what all that was about in the room? The 'I lost my friend,' and the 'RAWR, you can't take Stiles', and the howling.”

If anything, Derek's face seemed only to become more closed-off and reserved. Not that Stiles was watching intently or anything.

“We are,” Derek managed between clenched teeth. “Friends.”

Stiles made a thoughtful noise, settling back as much as he could to look out the window at the passing scenery. Metallica played through the car's speakers, barely audible to his human ears but filling the quiet.

The hours pass with Stiles grumbling under his breath about the discomfort. Eventually, he gives in and presses the seat back as far as it can go and shakes out his feathers. Surprising, how quickly you can get used to the weirdest things.

Then again, this is totally his life. Growing wings is right up his freakish, monster-infested alley.

A little over an hour out of town, the radio station noticeably morphed from Alice in Chains to static. They leave California, and then the next state. On hour eight, Stiles contorts himself into a semblance of comfort and takes a nap. He wakes up and hour later, texts the pack their whereabouts, and settles in to complain. Loudly.

"Okay, why the hell didn't we just use the angel mojo?" Stiles cried unhappily, sitting up while he rubbed at his eyes. Derek quirked an eyebrow up. "Castiel can do this thing where he grabs you and teleports or something."

"I prefer driving, so I know where the hell we are," Derek muttered. He reached behind his seat, a feat in the cramped interior of the Camaro, then tossed a plastic bag in Stiles's lap. "Stopped for gas earlier."

"Is this Red Bull and Reeses?" Stiles asked happily, stroking aforementioned candy lovingly. "Aww, you do care." He smirked over at Derek whose hands were currently tensed painfully on the steering wheel.

"Tell me what happened earlier," Derek said instead of acknowledging Stiles's sly digs. Stiles popped the tab on his Red Bull and proceeded to tell a much more in-depth synopsis of what he'd experienced at the hands of the former Aztec god and subsequently the strange hunter brothers.

"So, the hunters lied about vampires and somehow knew that this guy was who they were after," Derek said thoughtfully.

"Well, Sam did mention they'd seen portents or something in one of the PMs he sent me," Stiles acknowledged. "Maybe there was more to it that they didn't share with the eighteen-year-old." He shrugged, throwing his trash into the plastic bag and then narrowing his eyes threateningly at Derek while he shoved it into the glove compartment.

"And you didn't recognize Quetzalcoatl at the Sentient Bean because he had a different appearance," Derek continued.

"Yeah, that's what I said," Stiles replied, stretching and cracking more than a few bones. He pulled down the Camaro's visor, touching his face lightly as he traced the sleep circles that bruised underneath his eyes.

"Theoretically, he could look like anyone," Derek proposed, jerking his head back towards the road when the younger man turned towards him. Stiles chewed his lip thoughtfully, flipping the visor back up.

"I don't really think so," the teen replied. "When I came to after the Big Bang acid trip, I'm pretty sure I recognized his face as-is. So he would've looked like that all along, right? Maybe he just has a night-time form and a day-time form."

Derek made a slight noise of agreement. They sat, each in his own thoughts, until Stiles grew bored again.

"Road trips freaking suck," he complained. "I don't know why everyone thinks they're so cool." With that, he crossed his arms and leaned against his window, moping. He was surprised by Derek's deep voice responding.

"Laura and I used to drive for hours before we'd stop for a few months. She always said we had to keep ahead of anyone who could be tracking us. More and more recently, I've been thinking that there wasn't anyone. That she just needed to feel like we were moving forward."

Stiles gazed over at his alpha quietly, knowing he should feel honored that Derek was giving him this secret but feeling more exhausting sadness than anything. Instinctively, he reached out, resting his hand gently in the crook of Derek's elbow.

"Do you think you are now?" Stiles found himself asking. "Moving forward? You have a pack with three betas. And you have me to do all the tedious research and have enough awesome to carry all four of you." He didn't miss the way Derek's lips curved upwards fondly.

"I don't know," Derek said with certainty. Conviction in his uncertainty. Stiles appreciated the conflict.

"We should've taken the Jeep," Stiles interjected, ignoring his inner critic harping about non sequiturs. "I would've had way more room to let these puppies loose." He gestured with his head towards his tightly folded wings.

Derek shrugged wordlessly. Stiles huffed at him, then attempted to find a radio station worth listening to. He gave up almost immediately.

"Don't you have some CDs or something? This is the most boring road trip in the history of ever, AND there's no good music. Aren't we supposed to be listening to 500 Miles and bonding?"

"This isn't an episode of How I Met Your Mother, so no," Derek replied easily. Stiles grinned, knowing the only reason Derek even knew that reference was because of the Stilinski-mandated weekly pack meetings which usually devolved into watching TV series by the season or blockbuster movies. "Check under the seat."

Stiles found an Alanis Morissette CD, Jagged Little Pill, and held it up questioningly. Derek flushed brightly.

"That's not mine," he choked, his grip making the leather of the steering wheel protest squeakily.

"Sure it isn't," Stiles agreed, smirking. He popped the CD in, singing along to a few of the songs obnoxiously as they drove down deserted roads in the early morning. He maybe, just a little bit, was enjoying himself after all.

Still, after what felt like forever cramped in a car with only uncomfortable rest stops and gas station food, Stiles was relieved as the Impala before them took an exit off the interstate and led a winding path to an old-looking salvage yard in the middle of nowhere. They watched the two hunters exit the car and, after sharing an uncertain glance, did the same.


End file.
